


Signs of Autumn

by gardnerhill



Series: The Vermilion Problem [9]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Story: The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, Vampires, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vampires don't normally think of retirement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Signs of Autumn

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2015 July Watson's Woes Promptfest prompt #3, Picture Prompt: 

I had been dismissing the occasional grey in Watson's hair and moustache, the deepening lines at his eyes and jowls, his stiffer walking gait, the thinner yet more complex quality of his blood when I fed from him. I myself never aged and had been willfully ignoring the signs in my companion. He had broached the subject of retirement for both of us, a retreat to the countryside from where he could finish his life in pastoral peace.  
  
It was the Garrideb case that finally made up my mind for me. I vividly recall snarling in the face of my white-faced pop-eyed captive that his life was forfeit for killing Watson; my ice-cold rage was sleet in my veins, and I more my former self than I had been for decades, as much a soulless killing fiend as was my brother. All that kept me from tearing open Evans’ artery and feeding till he died under my grip was a groan of pain from behind me; Watson, wounded, very much alive.  
  
I spent a good deal of time in introspection whilst Watson recovered from his superficial bloodletting. That ridiculous nothing of a case would have been such a disgraceful way for both of us to depart. I finally admitted that it was time that we both retire and find a life kinder to an aging body.  
  
So we dwell in Sussex, amid the hum of bees and the soft grumble of the ocean waves below our cliff. I have slowed my pace to match his, both in our walks and in our daily routine, and am bemused to find peace envelop me as well. I watch my companion moving through dead brown leaves that herald the winter, and see in Watson’s lined face the shape of the skull beneath. But my morocco case remains safely locked in my desk drawer in our cottage; it contains my syringe, vials of holy water and powdered garlic, a fatal dose of consecrated bread – all ready for my use on the day my mortal beloved leaves me. Watson knows of the case and loathes it; but he has stopped his attempts to change my mind.  
  
When his life’s autumn takes him away, it will do the same for me. I am with the one I love and I am content. (Mycroft envies me to the bottom of his winter heart for both these things.)


End file.
